Tarnished
by winged-things
Summary: When they first meet, Irene is bright and shiny and new.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I'm just playing around. Almost everything belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

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Tarnished.

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She's at university; a music student, when they first meet. A year younger than him and so bright and shiny and new.

Sherlock's first impulse is to run as far away from Irene Adler as possible, so he can't tarnish her, can't make her matted and dull.

His second impulse it to reach for her and hold on tight in the hope that he can be as bright and shiny as she.

The second impulse is easier to follow.

And it works, for a while. At first the sound of her voice, her laughter is enough.

Her singing alone is worth all the heroin in London. He's only been dabbling with drugs and for her smile and a mind that catches all the things he misses, it's easy to give it all up.

And for a while, years really, everything's good.

Better than good.

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But eventually, little by little – _a little bit here, a little bit there_ – he's in deeper than ever before and this time he's pulled her down with him.

The trouble is, she's supposed to be his safety net, his floatation device, his _bloody_ parachute.

When his father does finally drag him (and only him) out, he does the rehab and then jumps straight back in, because she's still there. The Woman his father doesn't care he cares about.

The singing stops first, about the same time as his second trip to rehab. The laughter is next, then her smile, until she is more dull and tarnished than he is.

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His father agrees to help her clean once. She wants to be, for the bright and shiny new life, that could only be his and his father never believes is his.

But then she loses the baby...

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She finishes the rehab, writing him letter after letter after letter, letters that he never reads and overdoses on the day he breaks out of his rehab facility to have her and the baby's initials tattooed where he will be the only one to ever see them.

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The day after he buries her; on a day that is too bright and too shiny and too new, he's on a plane (already high, but experienced enough to hide it well), to New York.

To Alistair, who will listen and won't judge.

To a tattoo parlour, to have eglantines; thorns and all, twisted over and around the initials, and then to a rehab facility he's never been to before.

He needs to away from his father, and even further away from her.

It will never be far enough.

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Finish.

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I'm just playing around. Almost everything belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

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Steel Wool.

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There are two weekends; one at the start of October, the other at the end of November, when Joan retreats to her room and listens to Sherlock stomp through the house. He ignores his phone, turns up the TVs and radios and glances out the doors and windows with a hungry, desperate, _needy_ look on his face.

She comes out of her room to lock the doors and close the curtains, to cook fatty, greasy comfort food and ply him into stillness and silence with disgusting ice-cream topping combinations.

He picks up the violin late Sunday evening and plays and plays and plays, until Joan takes it from him.

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"She died today," He tells her, "Irene, she overdosed."

"An accident?"

"Most likely."

"And in October?"

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Sherlock takes the violin back.

And plays and plays and plays.

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	3. Chapter 3

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Disclaimer: I'm just playing around. Almost everything belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

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Polish.

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Sherlock and his bees have the rooftop, so when the six weeks had ended and Joan was supposed to leave and Sherlock had asked her not to, she'd claimed the walled garden at the back of the house.

It was smaller than her bedroom and hadn't been much more than a half dozen concrete pavers and a couple of dead weeds. But Dante had known a few guys with gardening experience, who'd done the work for $20 and a reference.

Joan had had them pave one half and sow a herb lawn on the other. They'd built raised garden beds against the walls and taken Joan plant shopping.

She'd put a hammock and an umbrella on the paved section and spent occasional lazy afternoons out there, catching up on her reading and listening to the bees buzz about the flowers.

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For her birthday Sherlock gets her a soft pink climbing rose.

"Most roses originally come from Asia," He explains, standing bare foot on the lawn, while Joan plants the rose between the rosemary and the irises, "This is a European rose, a briar or sweet rose. The Sleeping Beauty rose. It was Irene's favourite."

Joan doesn't know what to say to that.

"Rosemary, on the other hand," He snapped a piece off, running it under his nose to smell it, "Was buried over graves to keep the dead from rising."

"So…" Joan manages an deceptively casual tone, "I should plant some out the front in case of zombies?"

The look on his face is worth the sulk she'll have to put up with later.

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The end.

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